Substitution
by switchbladexfights
Summary: Bobby doesn't know what he wants. John knows what he wants but doesn't think he's ever really going to get it.Darkfic, BobbyJohn plus minor BobbyRogue


When they kiss, Bobby thinks about how John tastes. It's so typically John-like, kerosene and cigarettes and a faint spicy taste. When they kiss, Bobby thinks that John tastes like substitution.

When they kiss, John can't help but notice what Bobby tastes like. Bobby is overbearing, like peppermint hard candy and breathing deep on a cold day and soda in old-fashioned, long-necked glass bottles. When they kiss, John thinks that Bobby tastes like home.

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When John's lips are wrapped around his cock, Bobby realizes that John has a very girlish mouth. John's lips are warm and he could almost believe that it was Rogue sucking him off, that the strands of dark brown hair carded through his fingers was streaked with white. When John brings his head up and wipes away the flecks of white froth on his bottom lip, all Bobby can think is _Christ, that mouth!_ Because John's lips are plump and pouty and oh-so pink.

Perhaps, if Bobby wasn't so entranced by John's mouth, he might wonder why his supposedly straight best friend was sucking him off and not even requesting something in return.

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John really hates how fucking weak he is.

Bobby will come back from a 'date' with Rogue walking stiffly and looking sheepish, John can't help but throw fleeting glances at the obvious tent in Bobby's pants. When he lies down on the bed and rubs roughly at the bulge with the heel of his hand, as if he's trying to make it go away, John will cough quietly and mutter "Do you want some help with that?". And Bobby will blush and nod, just ducking his head really, and unzip his pants. And John will be on his knees again, with another guy's fingers in his hair. He hates himself for being so weak.

And he hates how it feels so fucking _right_.

He hates how he loves Bobby so fucking much that this seems so trivial. He'd give Bobby a thousand blow jobs, with out ever asking for a reciprocal if it meant that he was allowed to be around the other boy.

But most of all, he hates how Bobby never, not once, says no.

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It's not that Bobby doesn't appreciate the blowjobs. The blowjobs are fantastic, so fantastic that Bobby feels like a selfish, whining bitch for asking, but he'd really like some variety. So one night, as John goes to take Bobby into his mouth, Bobby holds up his hand to stop him.

"Could we um…maybe…do something else?" His face flushes a bright red, an uncharacteristic heat "Like…do it?"

When Johnny looks at him, Bobby's almost scared by that look in his eyes. It's not that it's full of anger or disgust. It's that the emotion (whatever it is, Bobby can't make it out) is so intense and raw and fucking _immense_ that Bobby can't stand to look for more than a second.

After a moment, John shrugs and lays down on his stomach, wordlessly as ever, and kicks his pants off. As John spreads his legs, Bobby is fucking terrified at the way John gives himself up so easily. For the first time since they started this whole arrangement, Bobby wonders just what's going in on in John's head.

But Bobby is selfish. Sure, the concern is there but it's crushed by a stampeding rush of arousal and need. So Bobby gets on with it.

He fucks his best friend.

And John is just so pliant and still underneath him that Bobby can't help but run his fingers through those too long muddy locks and mutter meaningless, sweet nothings into the air in time with his thrusts.

'_Oh fuck…so fucking good Johnny' 'You're fucking beautiful' 'Ohgodohgodohgodohgod….Marie'_

He feels John arch and shudder underneath him and they finish at practically the same time. John rolls out from underneath him and grabs the compact little pile of his clothes and staggers to their bathroom, slamming the door on his way in.

Bobby wait's a few minutes quietly and he can hear the sound of retching. He's worried now but at the same time, he's so, so tired.

Bobby falls asleep.

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John can't keep much food down anymore. He'll go down to dinner with the other students and eat as little as he can get away with (because the more he eats, the more queasy he gets). He practically overdoses on Pepto-Bismol until the sight, the smell, the taste of the flamingo pink shit feels like bottled suicide. Then, when he finally thinks that he's got his stomach under control, it pricks at the back of his mind. A tiny, nagging, stinging sound. And it grows and grows until its full boom box volume in his brain. And then the food that he's tried so, so hard to keep down rises in the back of his throat with a rush of bile. He barely makes it to the bathroom, the sink, the gutter in time.

Bobby's voice, caught in the utmost throws of passion.

'_Oh shit….Marie!' 'Rogue, fuckfuckfuckfuck' 'I fuckin' love you Marie.'_

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Bobby has a problem. See, there's this voice in his head. He doesn't think that he's gone mad or anything. The voice is more like his conscience than anything else. The voice doesn't tell him to burn things or kill the Professor while he sleeps.

The problem is that the voice _has_ been saying some pretty nasty things.

Come to think of it, the voice sounds a lot like his brother Ronnie.

Thing is, the voice always decides to offer its wisdom at the most inopportune of times.

In Algebra class, Bobby sits next to Rogue. He spends a good deal of the lesson staring at the pale expanse of her leg, visible through the slit of her long black skirt, made from some sort of stretchy fabric that felt strange to the touch. It's porcelain white and Bobby knows that if he were to just to reach out and touch it, it would feel just as smooth and cool, even as it started to suck the life out of him. He's transfixed, he can't look away.

That is, until the Ronnie-voice starts hissing in his ear.

_Stare all you want, it won't change anything. You know that's not what you want, is it? Fag._

John sits on Bobby's other side and when Bobby looks at him he can see John's cheek, wan and washed out and slick with sweat, pressed against the cool wood of the desk. He's flush against it, as though he's part of it.

The voice sounds smug, almost victorious and Bobby can almost see his brother's sneering, suburban white boy face.

_Christ Bobby, could you be anymore obvious? You choose the only girl in the mansion that couldn't be more untouchable if she wore a fucking chastity belt. You've stopped trying to get her to risk kissing you now, haven't you? You don't get hard until you walk out of her room and you know what you get to go back to. You'd rather fuck your whore bit-on-the-side boyfriend. Fucking hell Drake, you're such a closet case._

What really gets to Bobby is that the voice is right.

Watching John, his pale, sickly face and downtrodden demeanor, feverish skin sticking to the desk, Bobby realizes that John is a thousand times more beautiful than Marie will ever be.

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End file.
